


Quid Pro Quo

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, First Kiss, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is Hannibal, Love, M/M, Season 1 References, Season 2 References, Soulmates-Shared Skills, Will Loves Hannibal, almost canon compliant, season 3 references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: As the new skills appear, Will Graham questions what he could be giving his soulmate in return? An empathy disorder? A penchant for dark humor and knack for making other people uncomfortable?As the new skills appear, Hannibal Lecter adds another name to the list of possible liabilities that must be eliminated. A list that grows longer with each passing encounter with the public, each purchase of gas or visit to the opera. He has to wonder, though, who could possess a skill that so perfectly mirrors his own?Soulmate AU-Shared Skills





	Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat_Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Eyes/gifts).



> So, this one is dedicated to Cat_Eyes because they always make my day by taking the time to review chapters and honestly keep me writing when I'm worried that no one is out there reading. Thanks for being awesome! 
> 
> In other notes, I hope you all enjoy this, please R and R, let me know what you think!

Will Graham wasn’t quite sure what happened. His father doesn’t understand it either, really, when instead of his typical meal of grilled cheese, standard fare for a eleven-year old, turns into an elaborate dinner of baked salmon fillets with perfectly blackened edges, lemon accents, and a side of the Cajun-style bruschetta that graced the covers of Southern Living magazine. A few tentative bites proved that it was as delicious as it looked and the two of them sat together in silence and stared at each other across a dinner table cluttered with unpaid bills.

“You in home Ec or something?” His father grumbled. Will shook his head, it wasn’t as though the local middle school had started offering home economics courses in their seventh-grade curriculum. “How’d you make this?”

“I knew how.” And that was the only explanation that he could offer. His father eventually shrugged, enjoying their first-decently cooked meal in years, and washed the night down with his typical glasses of whiskey, letting any oddness that come with the situation seep away into the memories that faded after persistent nights of drinking.

Will decided it was best not to care. That he could finally enjoy some good food and that now when he went to the grocery store, he could turn their budget into more than scrambled eggs and packs of English muffins and their nightly spread became more than just a source for nutrition. He poured over the resources he had, trying to figure out what had happened, but the school library, with its stock of low quality novellas and books with talking animals, offered little comforts.

When he baked a chocolate soufflé for the first time with no issue, his father saw fit to tell him that it was probably his soulmate could cook and Will was reaping the benefits. Will laid on his bed and wondered what exactly he was giving his soulmate. Judging by the way his father talked about things, there wasn’t much he had to offer.

 

 

Hannibal Lecter looked down at the car he was driving: a gift from the State Board of Medical Health; a low-quality car they could use to avoid paying people for mileage when attending conferences. And now, parked in the midst of rural Maryland, it had started sputtering and making strange noises before something had popped rather loudly and he had decided it was best to pull over before he met his end on the two-lane highway in a fiery explosion.

“Excuse me,” He said to the back of a man, huddled over something behind the counter in overalls at the gas station he had parked at. “My car seems to be having trouble.”

The man gestured crudely to the edge of the counter where an old, red metal toolbox was sitting out, the lid half-opened as the tools were stuffed haphazardly inside. Hannibal blinked, feeling petulant anger rise up in his chest, his more base urges causing his fingers to curl at the blatant rudeness. But he resisted the urge to pull the scalpel from his pocket and slit the man’s throat, if only because it was highly likely he would need the man’s help in fixing his car.

But now, for his stubbornness, he took the box, walking back out to where the car was parked, and lifted the hood. It smelled acrid, definitely low on some necessary fluid. Hannibal wanted to wince, he had never fixed his own vehicle before, despite what he supposed were years of opportunity to do so.

He looked down, expecting no headway, but instead could almost immediately see the problem. Picking up a tool he wasn’t sure the name of, he re-clamped the loose belt, twisting it tight to its axle. It would need replaced, but at a glance, he could tell it would be fine for his return trip. He gave the rest a once-over, tightening over some loose bolts. On doing this, he noticed one chamber entirely out of fluid, probably the source of the horrible burning smell. He grabbed the box and stepped back inside, ready to ask the man what he needed. The man must have been in the tiny bathroom, however, and Hannibal set the box down on the counter, prepared to wait.

He looked around, unsurprised to not see any beverages sold with the exception of beer of a brand Hannibal had never heard of. Not that he would want to buy bottled water from a gas station, but it would be at least enough to carry him through the next few hours until he returned. He would survive.

He continued to look until his eyes fell on the display of various fluids and liquids deigned for car repair. His brain clicked and he grabbed a red bottle off the shelf, knowing it to be the exact item he needed. He stood for a long moment, waiting on the owner to emerge before he left a carefully folded ten-dollar bill on the counter and left.

Only hours later, the car humming happily and the thick green liquid he had used to give it its life back resting on the floorboards of the passenger side, did he allow himself to think of what the entire experience meant. In his mind, he added a faceless mechanic to his list of those people whom he needed to eliminate. Whomever his soulmate was, he couldn’t allow them to become an emotional liability. He couldn’t risk his own freedom for that, could never imagine feeling connected enough to a person to be willing to give it up. He would however, be sure to thank them for the new skill set before they died.

 

 

Shootouts weren’t uncommon. It also wasn’t uncommon that Will be called to them since he had been assigned to the French Quarter for his first three years on the force. He would show up, followed by a brigade of body bags and nothing but the usual suspects left behind as evidence, veiled threats keeping the neighbors from calling the police until perpetrators were long gone.

It was rare that there were any survivors at the scenes. Most had either bled out or died from the first bullet. Tonight was one of the exceptions. A young man, multiple bullet wounds and what looked like a stab wound to the chest. Will could feel the pain radiating off of him, the panic and fear as Will came closer.

“Hold still,” He said. They were trained in rudimentary first-aid, but this was nothing like he had seen before. These injuries were life-threatening, probably fatal. The man’s eyes stared up at him, desperate for help, disoriented with pain. Will pulled his shirt up.

“Get the kit.” He said to his partner, “And the pliers. Needle-nosed.” The other officer ran to the car to get them. Will started the compressions over the wounds, feeling the blood slip between his fingers and stick them together. In his mind flashed a strange picture. A layout of the man’s body, in all the pieces, where the bullets all rested, what arteries needed secured, what systems were interrupted. He worked, feeling wholly outside of himself, securing the man until the paramedics could arrive.

Two days later, he received a commendation from his overseeing officer, his quick work and medical expertise having saved the man’s life. He took the praise carefully. He wasn’t sure what to say about it.

As he cooked himself a glaze-roasted turkey breast for dinner, knowing he would make everyone in his squadron jealous when he brought leftover for lunch the next day, he wondered what his soulmate thought about putting so much energy into his skills only for them to be given to Will so freely. He vaguely hoped they might be happy about it.

 

 

Hannibal Lecter had wanted to enjoy his day in peace, and had thought that a day spent in the park would be a nice way to do so. Having just opened his psychiatric practice and celebrating with a tableau dinner party, he felt hat being outdoors would be a nice change of pace from his otherwise nocturnal pursuits. It was cool, the breeze was nice, and though the park was busy, he had found a bench for himself in an otherwise uncrowded area of the park in which to read a book that had been leant to him recently.

He had not been expecting to look over the edge of his book, instincts telling him their were eyes on him, to see a dog sitting patiently with a stick in its mouth, waiting on his attention. He had never considered himself to be an animal lover: particularly dogs which were a messy, somewhat overbearing entity. They avoided him as well, sensing a predator more often than not, though his days of dissecting small animals was long behind him.

This dog was patient however, and there were several in the park. It dropped a stick at his feet, and, not thinking much about it, tossed it several feet away in the thought that at least then the dog would leave him be. He went back to reading, but the feeling of being watched returned after only a few moments. This time, his company barely more than a tiny puppy, attacking one of the strings on his loafers with insistent paws. At his attempts to shoo it away, another showed up, a slobber-covered tennis ball between its teeth. Then another, clearly having abandoned its owner as it dragged a leash behind it. He was perplexed, a rare feat for a man who so valued control.

The original dog bounded back, carrying their stick in its mouth. The puppy succeeded in its game and took the string in its mouth.

“Hey, buddy, what the fuck are you doing with my dog?” A large, blundering man came over, reaching for the puppy off of Hannibal’s shoe.

“Your animal came over here, I assure you.” Hannibal said back, almost too perplexed to respond to the blatant rudeness. The man huffed and walked off towards the park again. Hannibal turned his attention to him, the rest of the dogs laying around him in a half circle. He waited, watching until the man made to leave, until he followed him to the parking lot, memorizing his license plate. Easy enough to find under the guise of a confused patient.

Later, as he speared the last of the man’s drill-bits through his eye-sockets, he looked up to see the puppy sitting their, watching him with its head cocked. He considered briefly killing it, his instincts screaming at him to leave no witnesses. But the rational part of him won out, and as he collected his trophies, he tossed it a piece that it lapped up quickly with a few excited barks.

 

 

“I need to borrow your imagination.” Will Graham sighed, mostly because he had gotten himself into this and was fully aware of that. Damn his brain, his empathy disorder, anything else that had contributed to him sitting in the cold of Jack Crawford’s office, across from a psychiatrist that was insisting on inserting himself into Will’s personal space by continuing to talk.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” The voice was strange. Annoyingly comforting without the condescension Will normally felt from people with medical or doctorate degrees. A real charmer.

“Eyes are distracting.” He took another sip of terrible coffee. “See too much, just enough.” He looked up and paused. He felt something strange wash over him, the man’s face giving away nothing of his own feelings. Wil continued talking, his mouth moving almost mechanically, his anger almost forced. He couldn’t stay mad at this man. Why though, he wasn’t sure.

 

 

Hannibal stood next to Will Graham looking at the impaled body of Cassie Boyle in the field where he had left it. He could feel his own smug satisfaction as he looked it over, Jack Crawford and others debating who it might have been. Will however, was acting strangely. He had his eyes closed, thinking over the crime scene in front of them. He could practically feel Will’s subconscious, and nearly hidden excitement at the scene in front of them, buried in a place the man wouldn’t let touch.

He had considered killing him at several presented opportunities during this trip. Some would have been almost too easy to stage as an accident, with only Jack Crawford’s mournful features there to attach any kind of emotion to the death of a man no one really knew. It would be a shame: a person of Will’s decidedly uncommon abilities should be lifted to an elevated plane of decorum, though he wouldn’t be able to pay him the theatrics he was owed with such close watch. But, even more troubling, as he spent time in Will’s company, he came to an infuriating resolution. It was not the first time he had cared whether or not someone was living or dead: he killed those he wanted dead with little thought as to anything more than his dinner. This was, however, the first time he had ever wanted someone alive.

He wanted Will Graham alive. Being in his company breathed life into Hannibal in a way he hadn’t felt in perhaps his entire lifetime. He was a captivating figure, attempting to keep the darkness he was certain Will could feel inside of Hannibal pulsing like the controlled animal it was, at arm’s length. It wasn’t working. The thought was exciting. He had gone to sleep, meager dreams infatuated at the thought of Will Graham at his table, for once not as a course (as he had dreamed of so many others), but as a partner, enjoying their spoils together.

He was troubled to realize that he not only cared for Will Graham’s survival, but also for his approval. And for that, watching Cassie Boyle in the glinting sunlight, he could feel the deep parts of Will grow in a miniscule amount. Will Graham, the part of him shared as Hannibal’s mate, was happy. And Jack Crawford remained in blissful oblivion.

 

 

Will sat in his cell, staring at his sink. Matthew Brown was doing his work, somewhere where Hannibal would be walking around in what he believed to be a world of his perfect construction. But Will had ruined that for him. He had come a hairs-breadth of being caught, and instead, he had allowed Will to be.

He supposed he should be more troubled than he was. For the FBI to believe that this was him, even with the evidence that seemed too perfect for any sort high-profile case such as this, Jack Crawford and others must believe in the darkness buried inside of him. Now, sending an estranged, manipulated man after Hannibal Lecter, he had perhaps confirmed them.

Now though, he could feel what he had known for a long time. Another of his mate’s skill sets coming to light in his mind, no rhyme or reason to its appearance. He had never considered himself theatrical, his house done up in neutral colors that went with everything because he bought anything, his clothes the same patterns and colors he had worn for years. But he could see it now. The beautiful, artistic flair of it all.

He could picture each body, twisted and turned and coiled into a perfect sculpture of celebration, only missing perfectly selected parts. He could see it now in his mind, how he would kill Hannibal and make his body one of an ornate design worthy of a man like Hannibal.

Except he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It wouldn’t be his design. He leaned back on the wall, closing his eyes and watching behind his eyes. What would happen first? Would Hannibal see it coming? Would Matthew Brown die and become the next victim of the Chesapeake Ripper? He wondered if there might be a struggle, if Hannibal would ever know it was him that had sent Matthew Brown, or if would realize it only in the moment before death?

The thought of Hannibal’s death, not the decorum of it, but the thought of the breath leaving Hannibal’s body in a final gasp, blood stopping its flow, skin turning to an ashen color that would contrast with the red. And he felt his heart quicken into a small panic. A strange tingling gliding over his skin. An odd feeling. His body burned with a sudden urge to stand, to go, to fight, to save him. Instead, he opened his eyes, hearing the approach of visitors, undoubtedly for him. And he tried to push the feelings away. To hide the grief now eroding at his mind.

 

 

Hannibal lifts his hand to Will’s face, the confusion on his features clear, wet hair plastered to his forehead. He frowned, but in Will’s eyes, he saw no fear. The beast in him, what he wanted to be purely chemical even though now he knew it wasn’t, snarled with pleasure that he had found his perfect mate, one’s who skill they could never share could balance out his own perfectly. Together, they could do everything, anything.

But it was tainted now with the bitter burn of betrayal. He pulled the knife from his pocket, almost wanting nothing more than to ram it through Will’s chest and take a bite of the still beating heart that had captured his own. Instead, he jammed it into his stomach, jerking it sideways, feeling blood wet his hand, soak his own shirt that wasn’t already ruined by Jack Crawford.

He could have pushed in a little harder, severed enough that Will could never recover and he would die in his place in Hannibal’s memory palace like Abigail soon would, forever stationed with Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford and another chapter of his life where the understanding had never truly come. But he didn’t. He let him fall to the ground, giving into his instincts that told him losing Will would be too painful, would ruin his own chances at happiness, and he let him cling to life. Because if there was one thing that he wanted more than to consume Will and display his corpse in a permanent picturesque memory, it was for Will to come willingly to him. For the rest of their lives to be spent in tandem, working together, building their own design.

 

 

Will watched Hannibal sink to his knees in front of Jack Crawford, surrendering everything. He wanted to laugh: what would they talk about all the way back to Baltimore? Bella? How they had all become unwitting cannibals for three years? The weather? The absurdity was astounding to Will. Perhaps most so because he could feel the minute, fleeting loss of control Hannibal felt as they took him.

Will watched in silence. “I want you to know where I am, and where you can always find me.” Jack Crawford smirked at him, and Will knew he was expecting Will to be amused. That this was unrequited love or some sort of foolish ploy at Will’s rejected affections. And perhaps it was. But the part of him that had grown in their time together, the murder of Randall Tier, what he knew the remnants of Muskrat Farm must look like now that Hannibal was gone, and they were mutual. He saw now his own prowess, hidden since he had gotten out of the hospital.

His cooking, when after he had figured out what had happened, he had left on the shelf and gone back to canned soup and cornbread. His knowledge of classical music, that he flipped through the fastest on any station so that he never heard the beginnings of compositions he had never heard that he could identify with ease. The medical dramas and still-living bodies that he avoided because he could see too much. He could shelve them. But he couldn’t shelve his unshared skill, the one that tied them so closely together. Hannibal was his enantiomer: a reflection of the opposing piece.

And so, as they loaded him into the car, Will felt none of the amusement. Only pain, the loss of Hannibal in his side. Fate had torn them apart, torn their monsters away from each other. He wanted to gasp and fall and run after him all at once. But instead, he went to his bed and slept, and when the subpoena came for his required testimony, he went to court and told the truth, the words burning like acid as the maroon eyes of a condemned man watched him with mutually felt pining.

 

 

Will reaches for him, and Hannibal pulls him to his feet, pulling him close, his eyes tracking the blood smeared from the wounds on Will’s face. Oh, how he’s loved him. He had sacrificed his freedom, given up all the chances he had to escape from Chilton with ease as he waited on his beloved to return. And now, here he was, clinging to Hannibal as if Will had finally realized that it was his presence that gave him such strength, such life.

He breathed heavy, “This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.”

“It’s beautiful.” And the man leaned closer to him. He wanted to kiss him, to let the black blood on their faces mingle together on the side of the bluff before Jack Crawford arrived and force their hand again. Before Will went into shock, or the bullet in his own gut began to hurt as the adrenaline faded. He wanted one moment. A single moment to have Will.

He felt his arms wrap tight around him, his weight shift. And then he was falling, freely at last, Will’s body bearing them towards the sea. The world behind them, his shifted his head, pressing Will’s lips to his own before they hit the water and the world went black around him.


End file.
